


all my sins laid bare

by matskreider



Series: altered realities [3]
Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: (i promise there is one), Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Blood, Eating Disorders, Established Relationship, Gender Dysphoria, Happy Ending, Internalized Transphobia, M/M, Oral Sex, Recovery, Self-Harm, Supportive chris, Therapy, Trans Male Character, trans!Mats
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-10
Updated: 2018-01-10
Packaged: 2019-03-03 06:19:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,435
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13335258
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/matskreider/pseuds/matskreider
Summary: Chris comes out of the bathroom and sits on the couch, rubbing his temples with his fingers. As a piece offering, Mats goes to Chris’ dresser and pulls out a Boston College sweatshirt with his old jersey number on it, and puts it on. The hem comes down to a little lower than his hips, but the sleeves require rolling up. Mats leaves them long as he goes over and sits next to Chris, hooking their arms together and leaning his temple against his shoulder.They say nothing for a few minutes more. Even though this happens often enough, it never gets easier with knowing what to say. Mats knows this, and he also knows that it’s taking everything in Chris to not pull him into his lap and hold him until whatever caused this slinks back to whence it came. It’s cute, his dedication.Someone should have told him that not all cracks can be filled with gold.





	all my sins laid bare

**Author's Note:**

> the past few days have been excruciatingly hard for me, as a writer and as a person. this started out as a venting piece that then took on a mind of its own and became what you see on your screen now. it takes place in the same universe as my other trans!mats ones. (at some point i really should make a series for them.)
> 
> please heed the tags above, both positive and negative ones. this story does have potentially triggering content in it. it's better for you to be safe than to push through reading something you're not comfortable for. 
> 
> with that said, here is credit [where](https://matskreider.tumblr.com/post/168692591777/siriuslyilluminaeted-link) [credit](http://a-thousand-words.tumblr.com/post/107040433097/tell-me-atlas-what-is-heavier-the-world-or) [is](https://themighty.com/2016/12/anorexia-recovery-is-not-simple/) [due.](http://killianjoenss.tumblr.com/post/169542772859/in-order-to-move-on-you-must-understand-why-you)

The bathroom mirror is still fogged from his shower, but that doesn’t keep him from staring at his reflection. Picking himself apart, from his stature to his muscular frame, hyper focusing on the scars on his chest and the ache in his thigh. The towel sits too low on his hips, and his fingers tremble as he attempts to pull it back up to his navel. The hum of the bathroom fan is the only thing breaking up the silence in the room. Mats is pretty sure he’s not even breathing.

He stays, transfixed, caught in his own reflection. Blurry and unfocused, fuzzy like how his head had felt after his injury, or like the white noise trying to creep into his consciousness. It lives in a cold place in his chest, one that he thought he had locked up, nice and tight, since his last episode. Apparently not.

His shoulders feel chilled, despite standing in the humid air, and he resists the urge to wrap himself up like his mother did to him when he was a child, just to warm his shoulders. He also resists the urge to reach into the medicine cabinet and do something he knows he’s going to regret, but only just barely. It is winter time, after all. He could get away with it.

A knock on the bathroom door does little to shake him from his balancing act of sanity. The door opens, sucking all the warm air out into the cooler air of the apartment. He can see Chris in his peripheral, his mouth open like he’s going to say something. He’s frozen, instead, caught in the grey zone of wanting to help but not wanting to scare Mats off. Faintly, Mats can find it in him to appreciate the care. But in the moment, all he really wants to do is get dressed.

Mats tears his eyes away from the now clear mirror, but doesn’t meet Chris’ gaze. He just ducks his head and makes his escape, taking extra care not to touch Chris as he leaves. He doesn’t hear the bathroom door close, but he does hear the sound of the medicine cabinet opening. He closes his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose between his thumb and index finger. He hates making Chris worry more than anything, especially since he’s barely worth worrying over. He’s done it before and survived, he can do it again and be just fine.

He pulls on his joggers and a faded graphic tee that Fabian had left behind the last time he’d visited. He grabs his brush from his dresser, running it through his hair. By the time he’s finished, Chris has finished checking the cabinet, because he hears the glass sliding closed and the bathroom fan clicking off.

Chris comes out of the bathroom and sits on the couch, rubbing his temples with his fingers. As a piece offering, Mats goes to Chris’ dresser and pulls out a Boston College sweatshirt with his old jersey number on it, and puts it on. The hem comes down to a little lower than his hips, but the sleeves require rolling up. Mats leaves them long as he goes over and sits next to Chris, hooking their arms together and leaning his temple against his shoulder.

They say nothing for a few minutes more. Even though this happens often enough, it never gets easier with knowing what to say. Mats knows this, and he also knows that it’s taking everything in Chris to not pull him into his lap and hold him until whatever caused this slinks back to whence it came. It’s cute, his dedication.

Someone should have told him that not all cracks can be filled with gold.

 

* * *

 

Mats makes it through the next couple of days like a robot. He smiles for the cameras, answers the reporters’ questions, and talks to Mika and Hank like nothing has changed. He avoids the reflective surfaces around the rink, though. Avoids looking too long into the camera lens, the bathroom mirrors, his teammates’ cars. It’s the winter; he can just say he’s focused on the game, focused on the plan for the rest of the season. If he’s arguing with some North Americans, he can always chalk it up to Scandinavian strangeness. He watches as they laugh, but some of the older guys on the team – and the other Scandinavians – share brief looks.

He doesn’t need their pity. He’s not fucking _broken._ Just chipped, a little. Around the edges, and across the inside. A fault line of psychological and physical stress, built up over years and years. Enough that people should know how not to probe deeper.

Mats is sitting in the idling car, fiddling with the air vents. Their coffees from that morning are still in the cup holders, the festive designs leftover from the holiday madness still in use, until they ran out and spring became the next big thing. One grande and one tall, and he wants to laugh and sob in equal measure at the height difference in the drinks. It’s irrational, to be this worked up over a coffee order. He knows it is.

So he bites his lower lip and forces himself to look up, just in time to see Chris leaving the practice arena and heading to their car. He gets in the driver’s seat, rubbing his hands together as he tries to alleviate the cold from his fingers. “Where do you wanna go for lunch?” Chris asks, putting the car in reverse and beginning to back out of their spot.

“I dunno, where ever you wanna go, I guess,” Mats offers, a pale attempt at his usual banter. It’s not even an attempt, really, and Chris knows it, from the tense silence that follows. As they’re headed out of the lot, Chris gives Mats a concerned look, but continues on, trying to make light of what this means.

“What, don’t have _any_ inkling of where you wanna go? I thought you always had a plan,” he jokes, and Mats wants to laugh, he really does, because he _does_ have a plan. It’s just not a healthy one.

“I think we have some leftover stuff at the flat, we can go back there, if you don’t mind. And I’m kind of tired. I think we have some pasta; we’d just have to make the sauce.” The peace offering is accepted, as Chris immediately changes his turn signal from left to right, and begins talking about chorizo vs. ground beef for their pasta sauce. Mats hums at the proper moments, knowing full well he doesn’t plan on partaking in that meal.

They get back home in one piece, despite the icy rain coming down, and immediately take the elevator back up to their apartment. Chris goes to make the chorizo, pulling out the garlic, salt, and pepper, because if he’s going to be cooking, it’s going to be an all out affair. Mats smiles a hollow smile at how content Chris is, talking to himself, heating some olive oil in the pan to toss the garlic in.

He leaves him to it as he slinks upstairs, biting his lower lip at how stupid he feels. He can force the Rangers to change their opinions on trans players, he can bust his ass and make it to the professional level of play from a country that doesn’t particularly care about hockey, he can navigate being queer in a horrible society, but he can’t stop himself from doing this one. Simple. Thing.

Mats doesn’t make eye contact with himself in the mirror as he opens the medicine closet, after he closes and locks the bathroom door. He hesitates as he holds the small plastic box in his hands, turning it over in his fingers. Like clockwork, he pushes down to dispense the razor.

It’s all routine from there.

He has to be careful now, he can’t be as careless as he was when he was younger. The cameras catch them in most kinds of undress, now. But their under armor covers their legs pretty well, and the guys generally don’t look below the waist anyway. His thighs are safe.

Afterwards, he wraps the bloodied razor in a wad of toilet paper and tosses it into the trashcan. He lets himself take some measure of satisfaction that he didn’t go too deep this time, and he wipes the blood off with careful fingers, before pulling his pants back up and taking a steadying breath.

His breath is ripped from him when he opens the door and sees Chris waiting on the couch.

He has two bowls of pasta on one of the end tables, and the TV on some documentary, muted. He says nothing, but he doesn’t have to. The thing about Chris is that he emotes with his whole body. His expressions are never limited to just his face. Right now, he’s sitting with his legs crossed under him and his face hidden in his hands. His shoulders are curved in, and when Mats takes a hesitant step into the room, he looks at Mats with a look that’s equal parts pain and betrayal.

“I’m sorry.” The quiet words feel empty, even to Mats.

“I’m sorry too,” Chris says delicately, and pats the seat on the couch next to him.

Mats forces himself to take the invitation, robotically approaching and sitting next to Chris. He’s not sure what he’s going to do if Chris hands him that bowl of pasta, because his stomach is roiling and his face is burning in shame. He feels chastised, and that begins to make him angry, but how is he supposed to make himself actually angry when all Chris is trying to do is help?

He pulls his knees to his chest, ignoring the way his thigh twinges at the movement, and just tries to breathe. There’s a small nudge to his elbow, and he reflexively tightens in on himself, trying to keep himself safe. But Chris is patient, almost infuriatingly so, and eventually Mats lifts his head.

Chris has one of the bowls of pasta in his lap, the smaller one, and he’s holding a small forkful in his hand. “Wanna split this with me?” he asks, his gaze on the wheeled pasta and red sauce.

Mats is fully aware that his own peace offering is coming back with thorns, but it’s the least he could do. He’s already disappointed Chris in one thing today. He can handle half a small bowl of pasta.

He can do it.

“Sure,” he says, and Chris offers him the forkful. Mats has brief flashbacks to those shitty years, where he was able to pass this off as a symptom of dysphoria, and was able to get the treatment he was looking for before he’d really hit puberty. It helped, some. He supposes maybe it had started as a symptom. But like a cancer, it metastasized, and spread, until it had become its own issue. No longer localized, but becoming it’s own aching, twisted, and dark thing, that had symptoms of its own.

He opens his mouth and accepts the pasta, and tries not to cry as he feels Chris pressing a gentle kiss to his temple.

 

* * *

 

Slowly, Mats finds himself slipping back into old patterns. He surprises himself at how easy it is, to start counting calories on the side of his once favorite snack foods. He passes it off as checking for protein content, despite the fact that these had all been approved by the team nutritionist. He finds himself putting more and more of the boxes into Chris’ side of the snack cabinet. When Chris asks him if he’s gone shopping, he lies and says that he did, and he thought he would surprise him.

Chris doesn’t press beyond that, and Mats is grateful.

Mats doesn’t let them have sex anymore. He’s afraid of what Chris will see when he finally gets his pants off, afraid of what that will mean for him when he has to face what he’s done in the light of their bedroom. What is he supposed to say when Chris looks at him with that heartbreaking expression, and then proceeds to kiss every scar, every scab, every bruise, as he makes his way up to Mats’ mouth, and kisses the biggest wound of all? He doesn’t have the answers for any of those questions, not even a hallucinatory best guess.

So he keeps his pants and long sleeve shirts on at night, curled up on his side and facing the window. Chris tentatively wraps his arm over Mats’ waist. If it’s slightly more concave than normal, he doesn’t say anything, but pulls him closer, pressing soft kisses to his hair.

Mats cries himself to sleep, silently, constantly. He doesn’t know what he did to deserve this.

 

* * *

 

His hair starts falling out a little while later. It gets so bad that he has to pull the strands out of his helmet after practice, balling them up and throwing them into the trash can in the center of the room, reserved for water bottles and tape. Nobody says anything to him when he does this; nobody tries to offer support.

Chris sits in his stall with his head down, speaking softly in Russian to Buch. Buch looks up in concern, and asks something in return. But when Chris mutely shakes his head, Buch follows his lead, and drops his gaze to the blue carpet instead.

The cold pit in Mats’ chest opens further, and he idly wonders if he’ll ever get warm again. Chris tries everything he can think of – offering to split plates with him, holding him close when they watch a movie, inviting him out for drinks with the boys. Mats lets him feel like he’s helping, but he knows the strands of hair left behind on the pillowcase every morning bothers him more than it bothers Mats.

 

* * *

 

Eventually, Mats runs out of space on his thigh. It helps to focus him, though, and he knows he can’t quit cold turkey. But his other thigh is where he injects, and he doesn’t want to compromise that site. So he does the foolish thing and turns to his arms instead.

 

* * *

 

He’s down to all the water in the world, one Gatorade, and one coffee a day. Either someone told the trainers that he would only get worse if approached, or they were genuinely idiots and couldn’t tell what was wrong with him, but no one approached him about it. As far as anyone watching his interviews or his clips from practice could tell, he was doing just fine, but maybe recovering from the flu or some such thing.

It was winter time. Everyone got a little rough around the edges.

He liked to think that he was covering it up pretty well, but he doesn’t have the make up skills he used to, and the dark circles under his eyes only serve to make them look larger, more paranoid. When he can be bothered to look at his reflection, he sees dulled eyes, duller hair, and marked up skin. Not with imprints of Chris’ teeth or fingers – those haven’t been there in weeks – but with bruises and markings of his own creation.

Chris doesn’t try to ask him to eat, anymore. He stops getting Mats his own orders from the places they used to frequent, because otherwise the food would just go to waste. He keeps the kitchen stocked with objectively healthy, easy to eat things. Soft fruits, for the most part, with a couple apples and pears thrown in. Some granola bars in the cabinet, a few protein bars, and – once – a meal replacement bar. Mats thinks he got the hint when he found it still wrapped in the garbage can a few hours after it was put there.

Chris seems hesitant to touch him now, hesitant to talk to him, and Mats can’t blame him. He knows he’s a mess, knows he should be playing better, knows he needs to be training harder and maybe, just maybe, if he shapes himself up, Chris will start to at least _want_ to touch him again.

The biggest change is that Mats no longer jumps into Chris’ arms at practice, nor during cellys, and Chris is no longer so physical with him. They’ve become hollowed out versions of themselves, and Mats is starting to find no comfort in the sting of the blade.

It scares him, because it’s never not worked before.

He doesn’t know what he’ll do now.

 

* * *

 

Everything comes to a head at the Ducks game. AV had dropped Mats down to the third line, which sucked beyond words. Mats had also had an ache and minor swelling around some of his cuts, on his arm and thigh, that radiated heat to the touch. The pain was uncomfortable, but grounded him, and he forced himself to focus on it. And maybe he could have forced himself through the first couple of shifts, had Henrique not boarded him with a heavy, but clean, hit.

The stars that had been floating in his vision for the past couple of days blossomed into fireworks, and he drops down to the ice. He lays there for a second, getting his wits about him, but apparently he’d waited a minute too long because there’s Chris’ face and. Oh.

Their unstated no touching rule evaporates as Chris pulls him up to his feet, and stumbles backwards, not anticipating Mats’ newfound lightness. There are tears in his eyes as he wraps his arm around Mats’ waist and begins skating him back to the bench, before one of the trainers, Mats assumes, takes his other side.

He yelps as the pads in his sleeve rub the wrong way against his arm, and the last thing he remembers are the horrified expressions of the guys on the bench, and Chris’ dry sob.

 

* * *

 

When he next wakes up, he’s in one of the med rooms hooked up to an IV, with bandages all around his arms and thigh. The cuts sting, as if they’re fresh. His head feels like it’s filled with cotton balls, and his entire midsection aches from where he was hit. He’s still breathing on his own though, so. It could have been worse.

The door swings open. Mats fights his exhaustion to turn his head slightly to see who comes in. It seems the whole of the medical staff walks in, save the team dentists, coupled with a woman he doesn’t know. She stays quiet, and Dr. Callahan steps forward.

“It’s nice to have you back with us in the land of the living,” she says warmly as she checks over his IV. “You didn’t pull it out this time, so that’s an improvement.”

Mats blinks at her. “Sorry,” he says, even though he doesn’t remember ever pulling it out in the first place.

She shrugs, and puts her hands on the bedside railing. Her deep breath, followed by the panel of medical professionals standing along the side of the bed, don’t make Mats feel any measure of comfort.

“You have severe bruising along your torso, more than one would expect if your pads were fitting you correctly. You have some minor infections in your arm and leg, and you’re severely malnourished. I used an antiseptic on the cuts that were infected, and told the trainers you are not, under any circumstances, to practice for the next 3 weeks, minimum,” Dr. Callahan says in a businesslike tone. The concern in her eyes does little to erase whatever faint panic Mats should have been feeling.

As it was, he felt nothing. Very little, anyway. Part of him was annoyed at himself for letting the cuts get infected, part of him was annoyed at Henrique for the hit in the first place, _all_ of him was annoyed at the situation, but all he could emote was a dull numbness. “Okay.”

Dr. Callahan’s mouth thins into a line, but she continues on. “This is an electrolyte treatment,” she explains, motioning to the bag in the IV stand, “and we’ll follow up with some concussion testing once the bag is emptied. What happens that depends on Dr. Mizrahi’s advice.”

The woman Mats hasn’t seen before steps forward, and offers him her hand. “Hello Mats,” she says, and Mats was expecting an accent, but all he gets is a very faint one. “As you now know, I’m Dr. Mizrahi, but you can call me Maureen.”

“Hi,” is all he says, and takes her hand in a weak grip. She still shakes it, maintaining eye contact, and Mats finds himself wishing for the comfort of Chris’ arms.

“I’m a psychologist, specializing in mood disorders, eating disorders, identity issues, and childhood trauma; Lisa and Erika called me once they’d gotten the news about your hit. Look, I’m not going to bullshit you. The kind of help you need is the kind of help I can provide. But I can only help you if you choose to let me. You’re not a minor, so, you have to make this decision for yourself.”

He looks down at the white sheets, flexing his thigh under the covers. He thinks about the pain, and thinks about the fact that he knows he needs help. He also thinks about uncovering all of the pain from his childhood, and about having to lay himself out, raw and open again, in a way he doesn’t want to let himself be. He thinks it would be better to let that sleeping monster keep to itself in this mortal coil, and fight his battles on his own.

But then he hears Chris’ voice through the doors, soon afterwards joined by Mac’s. He’s distressed, and Mac is trying to calm him down, but it’s not working. Mats knows it’s not going to work unless he puts both his hands on Chris’ face and pulls him down until they stand with their forehead’s resting against each other, and Mats talks him through breathing. Mats also knows that if Chris is all the way here, by medical, it means the game is over, and he has nothing more to focus on.

Mats may not remember much, but he knows that he went down in the first period of the game.

“…How long was I out?” he asks softly, his voice hoarse. Chris is still arguing with Mac, and Bryan turns to go to the door and address the situation.

“For almost two hours,” Dr. Callahan answers. “Hence the concussion testing.”

Mats blinks at that information, chewing on the inside of his lower lip. If he’s concussed, he’ll probably be sent home, but then again, if he’s concussed, he’ll have to get his nutrients some way, and he was never really a fan of the nose tubes. It will only give Chris another reason to worry over him. He doesn’t want to go to a clinic, however. He doesn’t want to find himself caught up in the same shit he went through when he was younger, and he doesn’t want to have to give up so much of himself. Hockey was already taken away, at least for the next three weeks, but Chris?

He didn’t know if he’d make it without him.

Outside, in the hallway, he can hear Bryan talking to Chris and Mac. The doctor, the captain, and the boyfriend, each firmly entrenched in the belief that his side was the right side. That he should be the one the other two listened to. Mats just wanted Chris at his side, a steady, warm presence. He misses him with an ache just shy of the surface, hidden just beneath his physical pains. It’s the most he’s felt in weeks.

“I want to stay at home,” he states with as much force as he can muster. He looks Maureen in the eye as he finishes, “but I want to get better.”

Maureen gives him a smile. “Then let’s get started.”

 

* * *

 

That night, as he and Chris get ready for bed, Mats disappears into the bathroom, closing and locking the door behind him. He ran out of razors four days ago, the empty plastic dispenser case still sitting on the back of the toilet. He takes out the antiseptic he’d been given and pours some onto a gauze pad, and sets about changing his bandages and cleaning out the infected cuts. The shallow ones were already looking better, but the ones on his thigh would take a while longer.

Mats hisses as he cleans them, but finishes the job within 15 minutes. Closing up the kit, he tucks it into the medicine cabinet and opens the door again, nearly walking into Chris as he does. He stops, just in time, and looks up to see the tears already falling down Chris’ face. He looks as tired as Mats feels, and he reaches up to put his hands on Chris’ face, wiping the tears away.

“Kjære,” he whispers. “I’m so-”

“Don’t shut me out again,” Chris tearfully begs. “Don’t…don’t shut that door. I can’t trust…I can’t trust you when it’s closed. I want to trust you, so bad. But I can’t let you keep hurting yourself like this, I can’t, I _can’t._ ” The mantra continues, and Mats tucks his head into his neck, running his fingers through his hair.

“I’m sorry,” Mats breathes. His voice feels as thin as his wrists do, as tired as his mind does. He wasn’t concussed, but he’d still had his bell rung. “Min kjærlighet, I really am.” He does nothing to say that he won’t shut that door again. He knows Chris picks up on this.

Chris settles his hands on Mats’ hips, and sobs when he can feel his hipbones pressing into his palms.

 

* * *

 

Maureen is a hard ass, but Mats supposes he needs someone as stubborn as he is to try to break this. She pushes him, uncovers the rocks he doesn’t want touched and ignores the freebies he tosses out as distractions. She also never writes anything down.

“How do I know you’re even listening to what I’m saying?” he accuses her in the middle of their second appointment, two days after the Ducks game.

“How do I know you’re even listening to me?” she replies, and, well. She’s got him there.

 

* * *

 

The first time he cries in her office happens when he’s talking about Chris. He was in the middle of explaining how much he leaned on Chris, how much they leaned on each other, when times got tough. Whether it was real life or hockey, they always had each other’s backs. Then Maureen had asked for an example, and he’d started talking about how Chris was just a good _listener._ Other guys on the team, they could lend an ear, but they didn’t know how to respond to some of Mats’ issues, and he didn’t feel like sharing all the necessary context with them.

Chris just rolled with the punches. He watched Mats’ body language and adjusted his own accordingly. If Mats was distressed after a phone call with his mom, Chris was there to listen. Even if Mats didn’t know how to talk about what had happened, Chris was still there to listen. He always had been, even though they’d made the Blueshirts at different times. Just thinking about Chris, always being there for him, had gotten him choked up. But what had prompted the tears to fall was a singular, perpetual thought.

“He must be so disappointed in me.”

Maureen sits next to him and offers him a tissue, which he takes with shaking fingers. “I would venture, just from hearing how you talk about him, that he’s more likely disappointed in himself. He wants to help you, and he doesn’t know how. Anyone who can’t help their loved ones in times of struggle, especially anyone who doesn’t like feeling helpless in the first place, most often feel self-directed disappointment first and foremost.”

Mats leans into her, and says nothing as he continues to wipe his tears away.

When he gets home from that appointment, eyes red and body cold, he knows Chris will still be at practice. He goes upstairs and shuffles through Chris’ closet, pulling out the same Boston College sweatshirt from all those nights ago, and his favorite sweatpants, aiming for comfort and warmth. Slowly, he makes his way downstairs, and goes to the fridge.

The door has never felt as heavy as it does when he opens it for the first time, voluntarily, in over a month.

Mats reaches into the produce drawer and pulls out a single clementine. He closes the drawer and the fridge after that, not wanting to look at the rest of the food inside. He settles on the island stool and slowly peels the clementine open. It takes him roughly a minute to fully open the fruit; it takes him nearly an hour to eat the small citrus in its entirety. When he’s done, he forces himself to go to the bookshelves by their bed, and pulls down the journal that he’d started as a part of his therapy.

He writes down “1 clementine” on the current date, and then puts it on the floor next to their bed. He settles under the covers and puts music on, as loud as it will go in his headphones, to block out the itch crawling under his skin to go down to the corner store and buy more of his vice.

A few songs later, he rolls onto his back to take some of the pressure off his arm. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Chris, with his bag still on his shoulder, toque and scarf and boots still on. He’s staring at something on the island in front of him, and Mats remembers with a cold shudder what Chris must be seeing.

The orange flower of the clementine peel rests on the marble countertop, evidence of his eating that Mats hadn’t meant to leave behind.

Mats sits up, one earbud falling out and onto the covers below. He opens his mouth, but no sounds come out. He has nothing to say. Now that Chris is back, he takes the other earphone out as well, waiting for the inevitable weight on the bed next to him. Soon enough, the cool weight of Chris slides under the covers next to him, remaining sitting up.

“Mats,” Chris murmurs, his voice teetering on the edges of pride and joy.

Mats looks up, and immediately blushes at the way Chris is looking at him: like he singlehandedly put all the stars in the sky, or hung the moon. “What?” he whines, self consciously.

“Can I kiss you?” Chris asks, earnest excitement radiating from his smile. Mats shyly nods, and when Chris pulls him into a gentle kiss, Mats is reminded of so many of the reasons why he wants to recover.

 

* * *

 

Recovery is not linear.

He knows this, in theory, but he’s abruptly reminded of this on a game night, when he has the apartment to himself and there’s no one around to stop him from giving in. He only makes a few cuts this time, shallow, clustered around his hips. He keeps thinking of Chris’ face, the way he’d looked at him with such pride when he’d found the peel a few days prior.

As he wipes the beaded blood away, he hears Sam Rosen enthusiastically announce, “THEY SCORE! Chris Kreider with a beautiful pass to Mika Zibanejad, repaying the favor for earlier in the period, I assume. Rangers are up now 2-1, courtesy of numbers 20 and 93.”

The smile on Chris’ face is tight but genuine, Mats observes. After the replay of the goal, the camera pans over the bench, to where Chris and Mika sit with their heads bowed together. Mats wishes he was there with them, at the Garden, making this city proud.

The bloodied tissue in his hands reminds him why he’s not.

 

* * *

 

Two weeks into the three week ban from practice, Maureen issues Mats a challenge. “You’ve done well these past few weeks, but from the way you talk about your accomplishments, you seem almost ashamed of them. I want you to break past that shame. I don’t care how you do it, but you have until the end of this week to try to lessen that shame. You’re making magnificent strides, Mats. You needn’t be afraid to show them.”

Mats tosses different ways he could show his progress around in his head. He can’t do much by way of the team, and he _definitely_ can’t do anything by way of social media, but he can do something by way of Chris. Chris is also the one person Mats is ashamed of showing his progress to. The most approachable, and the most feared; the alpha and the omega.

Maybe he could just show Chris his journal? The detailing of his food intake, on both good and bad days, but making a steady trajectory upwards – would that be enough? The little side notes about if he remembered to clean his wounds or not – and most of them had healed completely by this point, and now were faint light pink lines on his body rather than the angry, swollen red they had been before – would those prove to be too much?

 _Stop trying to treat him with kiddie gloves,_ he can hear Maureen in his head. _He’s an adult, even if he is younger than you. You need to treat him like one._

So for dinner that night, Chris makes stuffed peppers, and Mats eats a small apple, a chocolate protein shake, and some Cheez-Its. When he’s finished, he scoots closer to Chris, and rests his head against his bicep, watching the Discovery Channel prattle on about _Ancient Aliens._ Chris wraps his arm around him, after a moment, and Mats hums softly.

During a commercial break, he looks up at Chris. The stress of the past few months have made him tired, and Mats wants to erase the pain that he’s caused. It just might cause more pain in the process. “I have something to show you,” he says softly, his fingers playing with the seam of his sweatpants. “And, um…well, two things, actually. But if it’s too much, I…you can just tell me. At any time.”

“Of course,” Chris replies, looking down at him.

“They’re, uh. Downstairs.”

Chris lifts his arm to free Mats from being trapped against his side. Together they make their way downstairs, and Mats picks up the book from the bookshelf, flipping to the current date. He writes down his dinner in the last meal of the day section, and for injury care, he simply writes a question mark. Then he turns around, the journal pressed against his chest.

“Maureen said that I’ve come a long way but I’m still hesitant with my progress. And that’s true. I know, objectively, I’m making progress. It also feels, subjectively, like I’m not. But I…have proof that I have made progress. And she challenged me to be prouder of my accomplishments, so.” He takes a breath, and offers the journal to Chris. “I write down my food intake and other self care stuff in there. Showering, Vitamin T days, stuff like that. I, uh…I just wanted to show you that…that I am trying. And that I have gotten better.”

Chris looks at the journal like Mats is offering him the Holy Grail, like this sad, handwritten book is something to be treasured. But maybe that’s the point of this whole exercise. He’d told Chris that he was in love with him already, once before. This was one of the ways he could demonstrate that, he supposed.

“Thank you,” Chris breathes, and goes to flip through it, then stops. “Can I, uh…what’s the second thing?” he asks, and Mats shakes his head.

“You can flip through that now, if you want. It’s, um. Kind of a short read. I…just, read that first,” Mats says.

Chris listens, ducking his head back down to the book. He sits on the edge of the bed as he reads, flipping through the pages like it’s some sort of treasured document that needs to be handled with care.

While he’s distracted, Mats turns so he’s looking out the window at the snowy city below. He’s close enough that his breath fogs up the glass, but he’s not looking for a blurry reflection this time. Achingly slowly, he takes the sweatshirt he was wearing off, just in a t-shirt now. Then he undoes his drawstring on his sweatpants and lets those drop, leaving him standing in just his t-shirt, now.

He knows he’s timed it right, because Chris gasps sharply, then goes silent. Mats hears the small click of the journal closing, the soft sound of it being set on the end of their bed. “…Mats?”

Mats closes his eyes and wishes he wasn’t so damn afraid of everything in this life. He turns around, slowly, keeping his eyes closed. He drops his arms to his sides, palms facing out, to show the gradient of scars running from his one thigh to both of his arms, ending in fresh red on his hip. “This… _I_ am the second part. Because I…” He trails off, not knowing where he was going with it.

And just like that, all his insecurities come rushing back. It’s never been more apparent that he’s not a _real_ man, from his lack of muscle mass to the scars covering his body, even the ones that were supposed to help him be a man. The space between his legs makes his face burn with shame, even if this is far from the first time that Chris has seen him naked, or close to it.

He’s just a girl in a men’s league, and he’ll never fit in.

Chris, somehow, is standing in front of him, and pulls Mats in against his body. Mats sobs into his chest, tears soaking the cotton of his shirt. He doesn’t even know if he’s making sense anymore, or if he’s even speaking, and if he is, he couldn’t tell you what language it was. Chris anchors him through all of it, petting his hair – much healthier now than it had been before – and pressing him in tight against his body.

He’d been afraid, before, to let himself be open and raw to Maureen. Perhaps he should have been more worried about falling this low in front of Chris.

“Hey, hey _no. No,_ okay? Listen to me, Mats. Listen.” Chris’ voice breaks through his sobs, somehow, and he finds himself clinging to the words, ready for whatever benediction Chris could give in this moment.

“You never have to worry about ‘falling this low’ in front of me. _Never._ I love you, so much, and that’s not ever going to change. Christ, Mats, I’m _in love_ with you. When I fall, I fall hard, and I’m committed. I’m not going to run because you’re seeking help, or trying to do what your doctor said. I’m not going to judge you for trying to show me your progress. Babe, when I saw that clementine peel, I almost started crying I was so proud of you. Because I know that you’re strong, and I can’t begin to imagine how you must be feeling right now, but I just need to tell you that I’m not going anywhere. You’re never getting rid of me, babe. Ever. You’re the man for me.”

That brings a fresh wave of hot tears, but it also pulls Mats’ frozen chest back to the thaw, letting him breathe. Maybe this is why infants cry when they’re brought into this world. The first breath that any being takes is so overwhelming because it is fraught with possibility. Mats feels born again, even as he sobs into Chris’ chest.

_You’re the man for me._

 

* * *

 

He’s cleared to return to practice in a no-contact jersey after the three weeks are up. He won’t be game ready for a long while further, as he needs to up his nutrient intake and get himself back on a training schedule. But he can do some of the drills with the boys, and skate by himself any time he chooses.

When Mats walks into the locker room for the first time since the Ducks game, he’s greeted with thunderous applause and cheers. Chris pulls him into a hug still in the door way and refuses to let go, not even when Mika and Buch and Jimmy want a turn. So the three of them pile on, and then he thinks Brady grabs Hayesy, who grabs Millsy, who grabs Staalsy, who grabs Hank, who grabs pretty much the rest of the room. It turns into one giant team hug, and is by far the most physical contact that Mats has had for quite some time now. When AV enters the room, he waits a moment, before purposefully clearing his throat. The group disperses, and a few guys are wiping their eyes as they leave.

“I do believe he’s going to be in a _non-_ contact jersey, so do be gentle,” AV says, getting a few laughs from the group. “Zucc.”

Mats raises his head from his path to his stall, blinking at his coach. “Yes?”

“It’s good to have you back.”

“It’s good to be back.”

 

* * *

 

Some precautions have to be taken, of course. Dr. Callahan had pretty much ordered the equipment guys to order completely new pads for Mats, to get rid of any contamination from his old set. He had to report to medical every day before practice, so they could perform check ups and track his progress. His sessions with Maureen trickle down from every day to twice a week, and Mats already knows that when he’s game ready, he won’t be able to see her nearly as much.

The thought scares him. He confides his fear in Chris, one afternoon, as they’re sitting on their bed, watching the snow fall.

“I just don’t know what I’m going to do when I can’t see her twice a week anymore. Like, I…I’m not afraid that I’m going to fall back into old habits, but I’m also not ready to be on my own. I know I have you, and the rest of the team, but it’s different,” Mats quietly admits.

He feels Chris shrug, and rolls over to look at him. He’s on his side, his head supported by his arm, and he’s shirtless, which is as infuriating as ever. How he manages to be so warm without any form of shirt on is beyond Mats. “It’s okay to be worried about that. But you know where her office is, so you know where she is if you need to make an appointment. And you have been doing so well, not being able to see her as frequently isn’t going to make you fall apart at the edges,” Chris explains, and gently kisses Mats’ forehead.

“Hmph. When did you get so wise?”

“Sweetheart, you’re not the only one in therapy.”

Mats blinks owlishly at him. “…Did I put you there?” He can see the gears turning in Chris’ brain, and he jumps ahead to the only possible answer that makes sense. Of course he did, of course he was the one who put him there. It couldn’t be anything else.

“I mean, recently, you were the topic of a lot of my sessions, but no, it’s not a new thing. I started seeing someone when I went to BC. At first it was just for academic stuff, me complaining about classes and shit. But then it was just kinda…I dunno, helpful for real life stuff. Especially when I was making the decision to leave college early to come play for the League. Therapy was _instrumental_ then. Ever since, I just kinda, kept it up. It’s hard to schedule, but I find the time,” Chris explains. He settles one warm hand on Mats’ cheek, and Mats hums at the touch. “Just like we found the time to fall for each other, despite a whole lot of shit in our way.”

That gets a shy laugh from Mats, but he knows in his heart of hearts that Chris is correct. The things that are necessary in life, that are an important part of life; they’re the things that life will continually throw at you until you start to see the truth. Chris gets Mats in a way that no one has before, and Mats likes to think he returns the favor. They see the best in each other, and bring out the best in each other.

It doesn’t mean that their worse sides won’t show every so often. It doesn’t mean that the demons won’t stick around. But it helps to have someone by your side to make the fight a helluva lot easier.

“That we did,” Mats agrees.

Chris rolls over top of Mats, settling him beneath his weight, and Mats hums as he pulls him into a kiss. It’s not going to lead to sex; Mats isn’t ready for that just yet. But there’s something comforting about making out with the person he loves as the snow falls outside. There’s something even more comforting that Chris isn’t afraid to rough him up a little bit, to press kisses down his neck and sink his teeth in a little.

Of all the markings Mats has forced upon his body, he likes the ones laid there by Chris the most.

 

* * *

 

He plays his first game three months after the Ducks game. It’s a home game, and he’s nervous, but he’s ready. The signs he saw during warm ups were all dedicated to him, and it brought tears to his eyes as he went through the motions of getting ready for the game. They’re playing the Bruins, which is a tight game all the way through. So tight, in fact, that they go into overtime tied at 0. It’s simultaneously the most excitement and the least excitement that Mats could have asked for on his first game back.

That dichotomy firmly becomes “the most excitement” as he takes the ice, getting himself in perfect position to net Chris’ rebound just where Rask can’t reach it. He’s done it; he’s won the game for them.

MSG is _roaring,_ people are chanting his name, and as Mats jumps into Chris’ arms, scream laughing at this turn of events, Mats feels weightless in a way that no amount of starvation could ever give to him.

 

* * *

 

He calls Maureen in the hotel after their game against the Blue Jackets. It was a tough loss, and an ugly game. His body aches in ways he was all too familiar with, and he feels a little bit like a teen girl as he lays on the hotel bed in his bathrobe, complaining about everything that has transpired.

“Well, my family is originally from Ohio, so watch your tongue,” she jokes, but then continues, “I’m sorry this was a bad game for your team, though. What about you?”

“What do you mean, what about me? I’m a part of the team, we all fell apart together, if that makes any sense.”

“Well, yeah, it does. But how did you personally play?”

“I mean, I did okay. I had a three-point night, which, yanno. Is okay, I guess.”

“Mats, I’m going to go out on a limb here and say that that’s more than _okay_. But even still, it’s important to keep that in perspective. No one man can win a game meant for a team of 20+ men. It’s just not feasible.”

Mats almost counters her, to ask about women and their leagues, but then he sees what she’s trying to do, and he quiets himself. Sometimes, arguments don’t need to be given.

“Now, what about you and Chris? How’s that going?”

“It’s going good. I’m not afraid to let him touch me anymore, which is. Nice.”

She hums encouragingly. “What are your feelings towards intimacy with him? Still off the table right now, or have things changed?”

Mats groans in frustration, and Maureen laughs on the other end of the phone. When his mental state began to deteriorate, his sexual appetite was one of the first casualties. Now, that he’s significantly better, and that he’s letting Chris pick him up, hug him, and kiss him again, it’s harder to ignore the part of him that is practically screaming at him to get laid. It’s even more unfortunate that Chris looks the way that he does, because there’s never any relief from that voice; it only gets louder whenever he’s around.

“They’re still…complicated. I _want_ to. And that’s more than before, but. I’m just not sure how to even approach that, or if I won’t change my mind halfway through, or something.”

“Mats, you’re allowed to change your mind. Chris is a considerate guy; from what you’ve told me, the odds are that you’ll have to spend more time convincing him that it’s okay than saying you want to stop. And if you do want to stop, that’s completely fine. I didn’t ask about it to make you uncomfortable, I just wanted to check in.”

“No, I get it. I do. It’s…gonna take some time, but I’ll think about it.”

“Sounds good to me, Mats.”

 

* * *

 

A week later, Mats sleeps in until 1pm. When he wakes up, the bed is cold on Chris’ side, but the TV is on upstairs. Mats hauls himself out of bed and pads up the stairs, his bed head a crazed mess. He goes right to the bathroom to try to wake himself up and get the taste of deadness out of his mouth.

Once he’s finished, he drops onto the couch with his head in Chris’ lap. “What are we doing today?” he manages to ask through a yawn.

“You’re looking at it,” Chris replies, still flipping through the channels. He slides a hand down into Mats’ hair, rubbing a little at his scalp. It feels good, and Mats lets out a little cat-like trill and presses his face into Chris’ stomach.

He feels Chris’ laughter against his face, and it makes him laugh as well.

Sometime later, after Mats had made himself some semblance of brunch – a peanut butter, Nutella, and banana sandwich, with chocolate milk and strawberries – he lays back in bed, writing in his journal. He has two, now: one for meals, one for actual thoughts. Often, the meals inspire the actual thoughts, and vice versa. He’s lying down on his side, writing whatever comes to mind in a sort of free flowing way. When Chris comes downstairs and picks up the guitar sitting in its stand next to the bookshelf, Mats continues, but now incorporating little music notes into it.

He loses a good chunk of time like that, humming along to the songs Chris plays that he knows, listening quietly for the ones that he doesn’t. Eventually, he gets tired of holding himself upright on his arm, tucks his pen inside his journal, lays it aside and then sprawls on his back, stretching like a cat. Chris laughs from where he’s playing, and Mats sticks his tongue out in his general direction.

He’s content, warm and happy despite the slush outside. “You know what would make this better?” he asks softly. Chris quiets his playing, an obvious invitation to continue. “If you were here next to me.”

Chris gets up from the floor and moves the couple of feet onto the bed, resting the guitar back in its stand. “Like this?” he asks, both brows raised in an exaggerated honest expression.

Mats smacks his chest but pulls Chris over top of him like a blanket and hums to himself. “This is better.”

“Technically this is on top of you.”

“Christopher.” He full names him, but there’s no malice behind it, and Chris only laughs. Mats finds himself drifting again, content under the warm weight of safety, of home, of Chris, and before he knows it, he’s out.

 

* * *

 

When he wakes up again, he’s alone in bed, but he can smell dinner cooking. He tosses an arm over his eyes, trying to figure out what Chris was cooking just from smell alone. It smells sweet, and there’s the definitive scent of bacon as well.

Pancakes and bacon.

Mats sits up and shuffles down the small set of stairs and into the kitchen, coming up behind Chris. “Mmmm, pancakes.”

“I knew it would get you out of bed,” he replies, putting another set on the griddle before turning around and picking Mats up.

Mats wraps his legs around Chris’ waist, humming softly as Chris rubs his hand down his back. He feels distinctly cradled, and protected, and it’s something he missed feeling. Something he missed _allowing_ himself to feel. He rests his head on Chris’ shoulder as Chris checks the pancakes. He flips them, holding Mats with one arm all the while. Part of him wonders if he’s too heavy, and he waits for the bite of disappointment to crawl out of that cold place and send him back.

Tentatively he asks, “Am I too heavy?”

Chris shakes his head. “Would you ask Atlas the same question?”

Mats blinks. “Who?”

“He’s a Greek Titan, who led them in the war against the Gods. After he was defeated by Zeus, he was condemned to hold up the sky. Modern depictions show him holding the whole globe,” Chris answers, piling up three pancakes and adding them to the plate of steaming finished ones.

“That’s a punishment though, isn’t it?” Mats asks hesitantly. “Like, it’s a burden?”

“I think the heaviest part of it is the fact that he’s not holding his own world. He’s supporting someone else’s world, another people’s hearts, instead of his own.” Chris sets the spatula down, and turns off the griddle. He adjusts his hold so he’s holding Mats with both arms now, looking up at him with a Mona Lisa smile. “Holding you, I’m holding my own world. The weight doesn’t matter, as long as you’re okay.”

Mats bites his lower lip and squeezes his legs around Chris’ waist, burrowing impossibly closer. “Thank you,” he whispers, and Chris kisses his temple.

“Any time. Now, it’s dinner time,” he answers, rubbing a hand along Mats’ spine. “Where you wanna eat?”

“You can put me on the island,” Mats offers. Chris follows through, then turns and pulls out two glasses and fills them with orange juice. He hands one to Mats, and follows it with a plate of three pancakes and two slices of bacon.

It’s easily one of the best meals Mats has had in a long time. Chris leans next to him, his elbow bumping against his knee as he eats. It’s quiet, just the sound of forks against ceramic, and when Mats is finished, he shyly nudges Chris.

Chris, who looks up from his sixth pancake, looks between Mats and the pile of food, the question obvious in his eyes.

“Two more. Please,” Mats offers, and Chris grabs the fluffiest two and plops them on the plate, handing him the syrup afterwards. He doesn’t do as good a job at hiding his smile as he probably thinks he is, but Mats lets him get away with it.

When dinner is done, Mats load up the dishwasher while Chris cleans the pots and bowls used. They make their way upstairs, Chris talking about possible movies they could watch, or new episodes of _Bob’s Burgers_ they could find On Demand. Mats hums along at the important bits, and when Chris is sitting on the couch and Mats is lying with his head on his lap, Chris finally looks down at him and says, “Do you have any preference?”

“You know me, I could just watch _Gladiator_ and be happy with it.”

“I’ll never understand why you like that movie so much.”

Mats looks up at him with genuine confusion. “Chris…have you _looked_ in a mirror lately?”

“Why, do I need to shave?”

“ _No._ You look just like Commodus, the prince in the movie.”

“The cowardly asshole who dies in the end? Gee, thanks.”

“I didn’t say you _were_ him, I just said you _look_ like him. And you do, when you don’t have,” Mats gestures at his face, “all of that going on.”

Chris laughs. “So I _do_ need to shave.”

“I didn’t say you needed to shave!”

“That’s what I heard.”

“Oh, my god.”

They fall into amicable silence as Chris inevitably winds up settling for _Bob’s Burgers._ Chris works his hand into Mats’ hair, and he hums softly at the gentle touch. It’s in this peace that Mats finally allows himself to process. He can hear Maureen’s voice in his head: _In order to to move on, you must understand why you felt what you did and why you no longer need to feel it._

Mats has tried to avoid diving too deep into the events of the past couple of months. He’s locked them away in a different part of his brain, only allowing himself to handle the repercussions. He journals like he’s supposed to, and occasionally shows Chris some of the pages. He still avoids mirrors if he doesn’t have to look into them. He goes to his medical appointments, and still talks to Maureen. It’s hard for him to watch TV sometimes, because of the weight loss regimens being advertised in the new year. Chris knows this, and either changes the channel or mutes them for him.

He’s stopped locking the bathroom door, even when he does his injections, something he previously hadn’t wanted Chris to see. As if it would shatter some kind of false reality that they both were living in, despite Chris never once hesitating in his treatment of Mats. He’s never pressed places Mats didn’t want him to, never asked those obnoxious questions he’s had thrown at him from time to time.

 _What’s your_ real _name? So you’re gay now, but you were straight before? Have you had_ ‘the surgery’ _?_

Chris has never asked. Mats introduced himself as Mats, and Chris listened. Mats had taken a long time dodging others’ attempts to hit on him, and Chris had respected that. Mats didn’t let Chris take his shirt off, much less any other part of his clothing, until almost two months into their hooking up, and Chris hadn’t pushed.

Mats spread himself too thin and cracked at the edges, and Chris had done the best he could. Mats turned his frustration inward, and Chris had held him for as long as he was allowed to. Mats pushed Chris away, and Chris had stayed at the edge of the new boundary line, waiting for Mats. Chris would have stayed there for an eternity if Mats had told him to. He wore his heart on his sleeve, Mats could see that now, and it beat to the tune of comfort, safety, home. He’s mean on the ice but sweet everywhere else, and Mats _wants._

Mats sits up, and Chris lets him go, but instead he moves himself into Chris’ lap. He feels clumsy inside his own head, but when Chris looks up at him, Mats takes his mouth in a hungry kiss. Chris kisses him back, and reaches up to cup his cheek like he always does. It’s safe territory, even though he’s back to his soft-cheeked self. But that’s not what Mats wants.

He takes Chris’ wrists and guides them down to his waist, encouraging him to explore. Chris makes a wounded noise as he tries his best to be gentle, but that’s not what Mats wants. He pulls back enough just to whisper, “It’s okay. I won’t break.”

At that, Chris pulls him impossibly closer, biting and sucking at his lower lip. His hands, expansive and warm, slip under his shirt onto his bare skin. Mats’ ribs don’t show anymore, but the way he holds him still makes him feel beautiful. _And that’s okay,_ he thinks to himself. _It’s okay for boys to be beautiful._

Somehow, he winds up laying down on the couch, Chris shirtless over him as he works his hands up his body. Mats shrugs out of his shirt, out of his long sleeves, exposing the stripes along his arms. Chris doesn’t hesitate, kissing and marking his way down Mats’ neck and chest. It feels good, it feels fucking _great._ Mats’ missed this.

He grinds his hips down against Chris’ thigh, whimpering into the stillness of their apartment at the feeling. It’s been so damn long he almost doesn’t know what he wants. There’s so many options, so many possibilities, and Mats is overwhelmed.

Chris lifts his head from where he’s left his fourth mark on Mats’ collarbone, still a little too prominent, and kisses him soundly. “What do you want, babe?” he asks, their lips still brushing together.

“You,” Mats whispers back, not bothering to fight the tears in his eyes. “I just want you.”

“You can have me.” Chris kisses him again as he slides his hand down between Mats’ legs. It feels different than his thigh, and Mats moans at the change in texture. Chris lets him grind against his hand for a little bit, before removing his hand and slowly, giving Mats ample time to say otherwise, sliding his hand into Mats’ pants.

He trembles as Chris rubs his fingers along his entrance, just below his cock. When Chris works one finger inside, Mats gasps, scrabbling to grab onto Chris in any way that he could. Chris shushes him, kissing all over his face, and Mats curls his hand along Chris’ neck. His tears have started to fall, but Chris kisses them away, slowly working his finger within Mats.

He feels wetter than he’s ever been before, and normally he’s embarrassed when he can _hear_ the proof of that, but it’s overshadowed by Chris’ hoarse whisper, “Oh, _babe,_ can…can I eat you out? Please?”

When Mats finally opens his eyes – when did he close them? – he’s met with his dark eyed Chris, who curls his finger in deep in a way that wrings a moan from him. “Y-yes, please,” he gasps out, adjusting his grip to Chris’ hair. “Please, I want…yeah.”

He whines when Chris pulls his finger out, and he shivers when Chris kisses his wrist and the crosshatching on his skin. “Lift your hips for me,” he murmurs, and Mats listens without hesitation. When Mats’ pants are finally gone, Chris kneels on the floor and motions for him to adjust, so he’s no longer lying on the couch, but sitting up. Chris kisses the soft skin of Mats’ inner thighs, nibbling gently, before he hooks Mats’ legs over his shoulders and bends him, just enough that Mats is completely exposed for him. He presses a soft kiss to Mats’ cock, licking softly, before he ducks his head and gets to work.

Mats swears he’s died on that couch. He’s already getting close, and feeling Chris’ tongue working inside him drags him even closer to that precipice. His fingers bury themselves in Chris’ hair, tugging slightly at his curls in a way that makes Chris groan. He bucks his hips at the feeling, biting his lower lip to try to muffle his scream.

This goes on for a few more minutes, Mats fully hard at this point. Chris pulls back from him, rubbing his thumb along his entrance instead, drawing shivers from Mats’ body. “Please,” he murmurs, and _Christ_ , his lips are wet. Mats did that to him. “Don’t muffle yourself. We’re the only ones here.”

Mats breathlessly nods, but it wasn’t necessary. Chris takes Mats’ cock into his mouth and hums, slipping a finger back inside him. Mats couldn’t stop his scream if he _tried,_ and from there he couldn’t shut up. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he can _feel_ the smugness radiating from Chris. But maybe he’s earned it.

Maybe they both have.

When Mats finally gets some semblance of wits about him and looks down, he meets Chris’ gaze. His scars on his left thigh are partially hidden by Chris’ hand, as he rests his palm on Mats’ body. He hasn’t stopped moving his tongue nor his finger, maintaining the intensity with which he’s looking at him. That intensity, focusing solely on Mats, takes his breath away.

“ _Fuck,_ ” he breathes. In response, Chris adds another finger, working them deep inside Mats and curling them. That does it for Mats. He comes with a shout, trembling as Chris works him through it. He swears he might have pulled some of Chris’ hair out, but he’s not hearing any complaints, so maybe it’s not as bad as he thought it was.

Chris moves down lower, licking in broad strokes in a way that makes Mats twitch with over sensitivity. Mats lets his head drop to the back of the couch, panting as he tries to regain his breath. In the meantime, he lets Chris comfort himself between his legs. Mats knows from experience if he lets Chris continue for long enough, he’ll eventually wring a second orgasm out of it. Mats also knows that if he let Chris stay between his thighs, he’d never leave.

When the oversensitivity starts to turn to regular pleasure, he gasps a little, and tries to shift his weight so he can change up the angle. Chris lets him, and shifts his grip so he’s holding onto Mats’ hips, his tongue wringing small moans from him. He’s practically trapping Chris’ head between his thighs, and he can’t bring it in himself to care. The tireless way his tongue works him open, coupled with the oversensitivity of before, brings tears to his eyes.

Mats doesn’t take nearly as long for his second, but he knows he’s done in the immediate moments afterwards. Chris drinks up whatever Mats’ body still has to offer him, but eventually Mats has to push him away.

He doesn’t go far, settling his cheek on Mats’ scarred thigh. He licks his lips in a way that’s not suggestive, but genuine, as if he’s trying to savor the feeling of Mats on his lips. “Can I say something?” he asks after a few moments of silence.

Mats nods, and runs his fingers through Chris’ hair, petting him softly.

“You’re so fucking beautiful,” Chris whispers, with the same earnest intensity that he does everything with. It’s simple words, but it means the world to Mats.

“You make me feel beautiful,” he answers softly. He’s anticipating the kiss Chris gives him, but he’s not anticipating how gentle it is.

“I love you,” Mats whispers once they part.

“I love you too,” Chris murmurs in return.

Mats hums softly, crossing his arms around Chris’ shoulders. “Do you want, um…?” he asks, nudging his foot against Chris’ thigh.

At this, Chris blushes and looks away. “I kinda already…”

“Wait, seriously?”

Chris mutely nods, and Mats just stares at him in wonder. “How-?”

“You’re really hot and you know I like eating you out,” Chris mumbles, still avoiding Mats’ gaze. “It didn’t take a lot, either. It’s been a while.”

At that, Mats has to laugh. “Min kjærlighet,” he coos. It’s answer enough in itself, and Chris just sighs before he stands, bringing Mats up with him. He walks them to the bathroom, turning on the shower water. The steam envelops the bathroom, trickling out into the rest of the apartment because Chris hasn’t yet closed the door. Chris sets him down to get undressed, and Mats turns, staring into the bathroom mirror.

His reflection is beginning to get blurry and unfocused, fuzzy like the way his head has felt these past couple of months. He watches the slow fogging, like breath on a cold glass, and he watches as a bigger foggy shape envelops his own.

Chris presses a kiss to his temple, and wraps his arms around his body, slowly mouthing down his neck and the bruises he’s left there. “Care to share a shower?” he offers, his voice soft and sweet. Mats leans back into the touch, closing his eyes and severing the way he feels trapped by his own reflection.

He takes a deep breath of the humid air, then turns around steadying himself against Chris’ chest. “I’d love to.”

Chris smiles and Mats pulls the bathroom door closed, the both of them finally on the same side.

**Author's Note:**

> find me on [tumblr](http://matskreider.tumblr.com/) if you wanna chit chat.


End file.
